


Hopeless Opus

by Heronfem



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Smoking, darker fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Altus kid smokes on the bleachers.  Bull plays rugby.  </p><p>Everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless Opus

The Altus kid smokes on the bleachers.

It’s not a big deal, really, except that he’s got a great singing voice and Bull would kind of hate for him to lose it, but then he’s tackled with extreme prejudice by Krem and then he really needs to pay attention to the damn game before he gets stomped, and he can’t think about the pretty boy smoking while he watches them.

After their game, the Chargers head for the changing rooms, and Bull heads over to the fence. The kid is still there, cigarette dangling between his fingers and his hair perfectly done. He looks on in polite curiosity, taking a long drag as Bull leans on the fence.

“Come to harass me?” the kid drawls, his voice sweet and all sultry seduction.

“Nah.” Bull looks him over. “Haven’t seen you watching us before.”

Smoke curls out of the kid’s mouth like he’s some sort of dragon, and Bull really wishes that didn’t do so much to him. The kid smirks as he shifts a bit, taking another drag. “Got bored.”

Bull hops the fence with ease, walking up the bleachers to stand before him. “What’s your name?”

Pretty eyes take their time trailing up his body, and the kid cocks his head with a smile that’s far too tempting. “Dorian. And _you_ are The Iron Bull, complete with hideous fashion sense and horns the size of your ego.”

“Ouch,” he said with a chuckle, dropping down next to him. It’s a nice evening, and there’s the beginning of a sunset coming in with gold and purple fat and thick on the sky. He feels alive, fresh from the fake fight that was their match. He wants to make bad decisions with this handsome boy beside him, but now is not the time. 

“Rugby, hmm?” Dorian says absently, tapping the ash off. It fizzles softly on the metal of the bleachers.

“Yeah.” Bull stretches. “Probably get taken by the army in a year or so. Figured I might as well start getting used to being hit now.” Or not, he thinks silently. Or, maybe I’ll be Tal-Vashoth by then, because I can’t believe in them anymore.

Dorian hums softly, watching the smoke drift away. “I might be dead in a year or so.” The tone is matter of fact, tired.

Bull looks over, startled from his own thoughts. “What?”

“Dead. Toes up, drying in the sun,” Dorian says, and turns to him with a bitter smile. Bitter looks horrifically good on him. Bull is sure that happy would look downright devastating. “Amazing, how quick hate kills.”

“Yeah,” Bull says softly, thinking about Seheron, his dead pseudo siblings. He thinks of this strange mash up school, he thinks of the gangs that beat up people like him, who talk to the ‘Vints without fighting, who think anything not immediately and obviously Qun is wrong. He thinks of reeducation that didn’t stick, a tired Tamassran wanting nothing more than to hold him as he’s dragged away. “Yeah.”

Dorian takes a slow drag on his cigarette, eyes flicking over to him again. “It’s my father,” he says in monotone. “I saw the research. He’s going to do something, try and change me.”

“Change you from what?”

“Who I am,” Dorian says, giving him another slow once over. Bull gets it. 

“Oh,” he says thoughtfully, and Dorian nods, looking back at the sunset. He nudges him. “Hey. Dorian.”

“What?”

“Wanna make out?”

Dorian turns, gives him a slow look, and shrugs. “Sure.”

oOo

Dorian finds him in the library during lunch, drags him to a secreted away corner, and kisses like he’s a dying man. They’ve been doing this for nearly three months, and Bull has grown bulkier, his body broader against Dorian’s lithe, elegant frame. It’s dizzying, to be so much stronger than this handsome, graceful mage that all but throws himself at him whenever they have a chance to be alone. The army has been and gone. Krem has blood on his hands, from the assassin sent to kill Bull in his sleep. They dumped the mostly living body on the steps of the embassy. They have not been bothered since.

“Tonight,” he breathes, as Bull’s hands fumble at his hips, gripping where they can. “Tonight, I’m either here forever or I’m dead, Bull, don’t let them forget me. Don’t forget me.” He’s thinking of the Chargers, unexpected friends, the Inquisition clique they both seem to be part of with Max Trevelyan, he’s thinking of all the people who know him, who care, who can’t be there when he needs it most. They both know it. Dorian can’t get away, can’t just leave without knowing that his father intends the worst. Bull’s heart is breaking.

“I won’t, _kadan_ ,” Bull whispers against his lips, gasping at the feel of a tongue stud. “I won’t let them forget. Never.”

Dorian does not cry against his lips, but he does something suspiciously similar to sobbing.

oOo

Dorian finds his way to the house Bull shares with the Chargers, the emancipated ones at least. He’s covered in blood, his lip split, and a broken mage collar sits on his neck. He drops a solitary bag of things inside the door, chest heaving as Bull slowly runs a hand through his hair. He is wild, the air charged with electricity and success. The Chargers make themselves scarce, for no good reason. Bull is only a year older, has refused the Qun, and will not lay a sexual finger on him until he’s legal.

“I won,” he rasps, his voice hoarse from screaming. “I won. They can’t have me. They can’t break me.”

Bull smiles, and Dorian sleeps in his bed, cleaned up and bandaged up and firmly refused sex. He sleeps, and he sleeps, and he feels whole when he wakes.

Maybe, he thinks as they watch the sunrise, Dorian safe in Bull’s arms, he can learn to be safe.

He wears one of Bull’s shirts at breakfast, as the Chargers pack their things and prepare to leave in a hurry if necessary. The house is prepped for an attack. The police are called. They listen to Dorian’s testimony, take his finger prints, do something magicky, and all blanch at the results. Dorian is thanked, his statement is taken, and they take one look at Bull protectively standing behind him, and nod. Dorian stays. Halward will be charged. He is safe. They leave.

Dorian stays, he stands, he turns, he kisses Bull like he means to drink him down.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” Bull whispers against his lips, and Dorian smiles, no trace of ash in his mouth.


End file.
